


Baby, My Heart's Ticking Only for You

by fictionalaspect



Category: Bandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Humor, M/M, Robots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-12
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:24:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalaspect/pseuds/fictionalaspect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ROBOTS ARE DANGEROUS, the napkin says, with a tiny drawing of what looks like an angry cardboard box. PROTECT YOURSELF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby, My Heart's Ticking Only for You

**Author's Note:**

> AU, where neither band ever made it big and Pete and Patrick move to the east coast after it all shakes out. I attempted to write something for [](http://onneonlights.livejournal.com/profile)[**onneonlights**](http://onneonlights.livejournal.com/)'s prompts for [Porn Battle IX](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/24511.html?thread=1869759#cmt1869759). It was intended to fulfill the prompts "night," "summer," and "sleepovers." This isn't nearly porny enough to make the cut, so. Surprise fic! [](http://anoneknewmoose.livejournal.com/profile)[**anoneknewmoose**](http://anoneknewmoose.livejournal.com/) looked it over for me and reminded me that I can't spell. ♥

Pete meets Mikey Way at a show, any show, the name of the band doesn't matter. Pete's tired and twitchy around the edges, running very close to empty. A show is exactly what he needs, something rough and meaningless. Pete just wants to scream for a while, feed off the exhaustion in his veins, and maybe then he'll be able to get some sleep.

The first band sucks; the second's mediocre, but an improvement. Pete shoves up against the guys in front of him, elbowing his way through the set. There's a guy standing next to him, tall and lanky, glasses and awkwardly scrunched up hair. Pete knows all about interesting hair choices. He appreciates the guy's commitment to the War against the Brush.

The third band is solid, heavy, screeching riffs of guitars and a pulsing back-beat that screams out _yes, yes, go, go, live a little_. The crowd tightens up, bodies shoving and tripping, until it reaches critical mass. Pete's thrown into the pit entirely by accident. He doesn't fight it; he just fights everyone else.

Later, a few more songs in, he's bodyslammed into the tall guy with the rat's nest hair. He opens his mouth to apologize.

The guy mumbles something about robots.

"What?" Pete says, leaning in, straining to hear over the crowd.

"I said," the guy says, not raising his voice. "I said you'd make an awesome killer robot." He looks at Pete evenly, as though this is the kind of compliment he pays to people on a daily basis.

"I'd need more lasers," Pete says. "Or do you mean, I should just slam into people and hope for the best?"

"You tell me," the guy says. Pete laughs, down to his bones, the pleased rumble of _hah, I found you_ sloshing around in his stomach. Pete's good at finding the strange ones. He's not so great at keeping them.

He grabs his hand, pulls the guy deeper into the pit, and they thrash around together for a while, oddly companionable. The guy has a mean left hook. He's stronger than he looks.

\--

Pete drains the rest of his beer and says, "Are you hungry, man?" Mikey is slugging back a Solo cup filled with bathtub-gin and tonic, no limes anywhere in sight.

Mikey drains his drink, passes the back of his wrist over his mouth and says, "What?"

"Food," Pete says. "You want to get some?" Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. Most of the time, Pete's usually not even looking for a hook-up. He just hates leaving by himself, stark and singular, feeling the high fade slowly away.

"That depends," Mikey says. "On whether you're one of those weirdos who eats fake bacon like my roommate."

"I like the real deal," Pete says. "Diner?"

"Hell yes," Mikey says. "You have a car?"

"Theoretically," Pete says, and digs in the pocket of his sweaty, disgusting jeans for his keys. He pulls them out with a triumphant sound.

"How drunk are you," Mikey asks, after a pause in which he's doing several things on his Sidekick, long fingers skating quickly over the keys. It's sort of like a spider trying to tapdance.

"Not very," Pete replies, honestly.

"To bacon," Mikey says, and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

\--

Diner coffee is a dangerous substance. It's like it appears magically whenever you aren't looking, and you end up drinking five fucking cups of it by accident.

Mikey eats like a starving animal, and Pete finds it oddly endearing. He's not messy about it, just extremely...focused.

"That breakfast sandwich had it coming," he says, when Pete asks.

\--

It's awkward when they part ways. Pete sort of wants to ask for an address, a last name, a phone number, some small way of saying _hey, you're cool, let's hang out_. Mikey seems utterly unable to read subtle signs of interest. It's like flirting with a brick wall.

"So, I'll see you then," Pete says, and Mikey fiddles with his glasses and says, "Yup." It's only when Pete gets home he finds a number on a napkin tucked into his back pocket, messy handwriting, but the name neatly printed in block capitals, the one he'd shouted out in the pit when Pete had asked.

ROBOTS ARE DANGEROUS, the napkin says, with a tiny drawing of what looks like an angry cardboard box. PROTECT YOURSELF.

\--

Pete saves the napkin. It's been so long since someone actually wrote down their number and didn't just stick it into his phone that it's like he's holding a relic from the past. _This is what we used to do before the internet_, the napkin says to him. Pete tacks it up on his noteboard next to the five take-out menus and his work schedule and wonders whether or not to call.

\--

He waits until there's another show coming up, something stupid and random in a basement rat-hole that serves cheap beer. Not that he thinks Mikey's cheap, but he might be broke, and Pete doesn't want to impose. He understands the reality of shitty jobs and scarce income.

He texts Mikey with _hey i hear the stars look good tonight. against the wall and carrion $5 @ fat jims. you in?_ He sends a second text with _it's pete from the show that guy you went to a diner with_. He hopes that narrows it down, but who knows. Maybe Mikey goes to a lot of diners with random dudes from punk shows.

Mikey texts him back and says, _shit, no can do. rain check yeah?_

Pete goes to the show alone, and this time he stays that way. As he's leaving, stepping out into the thick New Jersey summer air, he gets another text. _Megaman versus Ironman your thoughts?_

_megaman_, Pete types back. _definitely how is that even a question._

\--

(Somewhere not all that far away, Frank is killing things on their tiny broken down TV and saying "Oh, shit, he passed the Megaman test?" Mikey is rolling his eyes, but he saves Pete's number in his phone under _Pete diner punk show._)

\--

Mikey apparently doesn't sleep either, which is helpful.

They talk the most early in the mornings, when the sound of Pete's phone buzzing becomes a comforting, unexpected rhythm. Mikey has extremely strong opinions on comic books and Dungeons and Dragons. He doesn't care for cop shows and procedurals, but he can match Pete episode-for-episode on Star Trek: TNG trivia. He apparently had a teenage crush on Deanna. Pete agrees, and is tempted to ask him his opinion on one Wesley Crusher, but he doesn't want to press his luck.

Pete wants to ask if Mikey wants to hang out, get into trouble, do something stupid and ill-considered, but he's also kind of enjoying just talking to him. It's like he has a tiny, awesome friend who lives in his phone. Pete has this habit of watching friendships crash and burn with little to no warning and fuck if he knows why that is, but he's keeping a (slight) distance in the hopes of commuting his sentence.

It's a dumb idea, as Patrick points out to him one morning at work. "You're shooting yourself in the nuts," Patrick says, and rolls out his neck before cracking his knuckles.

"I thought it was the foot," Pete says. "Ow, dude."

"You've moved past the foot into fucking retarded," Patrick says. "Not everyone is an idiot who likes to fuck with your head."

"Just most of them," Pete says, and smiles the wide smile that means he's kidding, to anyone but Patrick.

"You talk to him _all day_," Patrick says, and as he does so Pete's phone buzzes, a stunning indictment of his guilt. The message says _shut up dude you could totally kill a zombie with a garden hose. strangle that fucker_. Pete types back _but what if theyre fast zombies? zoom zoom WHAM_ and presses send. Patrick rolls his eyes a little.

"I fail to see," Patrick says, "how wooing him with zombies is any different from just asking him out for a fucking burrito."

"It's different," Pete says. "Burritos require commitment."

"No they don't," Patrick says. "We get burritos all time, shut up."

"And I'm committed," Pete says, and flutters his eyelashes at Patrick, leaning in to press a sloppy kiss to his cheekbone when Patrick squirms and laughs. Patrick wipes his face off with a mock grimace. "In a contest between you and Hemmy," Patrick says. "I think you might win."

"You love me," Pete tosses over his shoulder, "Slobber and all," and Patrick says, "Always, you weird fucker."

\--

Pete gets the call at 9 o'clock at night, sitting on his bed surrounded by empty Chinese food-cartons and reams of notebook paper. He's trying to wipe a little bit of moo-shu pork off his guitar--whoops--when his phone rings. He answers with one hand, pressing the phone into the crook of his shoulder and his head, and the voice on the other end is so unfamiliar he has trouble placing it for a second.

"Hey, uh, hi," Mikey says, and Pete says "Hey," raising his eyebrows to the ceiling. "What's cooking, dude?"

"So I like," Mikey says. "Speaking of. Of cooking. I don't know if you've ever realized how dangerous kitchen appliances can be."

"Occasionally," Pete says. "Toasters are mean."

"I did this thing," Mikey says in a rush. "Where I sort of set our kitchen on fire and now the smoke has to clear out a little and uh, Frank's staying with some friends but they only have one couch. And."

"And," Pete agrees, feeling his smile widen a little. Of all the people to call, Mikey called him. It's stupid, but he gets a little swishy down in his stomach. Pete's a romantic deep down inside. He's the kind who should probably go to meetings for his problem. He could stand up and say HI, I'M PETE, I'M A DIE HARD ROMANTIC, WHAT THE FUCK, and everyone would say HEY, PETE, and they could all commiserate. Maybe he should start a support group.

"You want to crash here?" Pete says instead, and Mikey's smile comes through in his voice, all the way across town, transferred through the phone lines right into Pete's waiting ear.

\--

"I brought movies," Mikey says, and stands in Pete's doorway, looking awkward. He's got a backpack over one shoulder and he smells faintly of burnt pizza. "Zombies, mostly. Aliens for variety."

"Disney?" Pete says, and when Mikey raises an eyebrow he grins and says "Nah, just fucking with you. I don't make anyone watch Peter Pan with me until at least six months in."

"Second star to the right," Mikey deadpans, and Pete thinks _oh oh HO_. This one here. He has potential. "You have done well, my young padawan," Pete says instead, leading the way to his living room. It's in better shape than his bedroom. At least he threw out all the take-out containers.

"Whoa, hey, hey," Mikey says, and stops dead when he sees Pete's bass leaning up against the TV console. "You play?"

"A little," Pete says. "Here and there, you know, me and Patrick, we're trying to start something." He doesn't mention any of the bands he's been in, the names, dates, places and faces of their small infamy. It doesn't matter. Mikey puts it together anyway, after skimming the CD case and a few long, unsubtle looks at the old show posters taped up on Pete's walls. "I saw you guys play," Mikey says, as he's running his long fingers over the fret of Pete's bass. "You guys were solid. I snuck into the show, I think. With my older brother."

"Too young?" Pete guesses, and Mikey shakes his head and smiles, unexpectedly sweet. "Too broke," he says, and Pete wants to show him all the sweetest things in the world, candy-corn kisses and neon lights and roller-coaster stomach drops.

(Shit, he's kind of gone for this dude. Maybe Pete had been keeping him in a safe little texting box out of self-preservation, but once he's here and he's real, Pete just wants to get closer. He's got an awkward sort of grace. He puts Pete in mind of a large giraffe, tripping lightly over himself, and yet somehow there's power hidden in there, too. Oh, shit. Pete wants to _keep_ him.)

"So, um," Pete says, and he's rubbing his palm over his thigh, a nervous habit he can't seem to break. "Zombies?"

"Zombies," Mikey agrees solemnly. "I hope you have popcorn."

\--

It's a satisfying gore-fest, made casual by the fact that it's all obviously ketchup. Pete was maybe a little concerned. Not that he thinks Mikey's a secret serial killer or anything, but his own head is sometimes a slightly unnerving place to be and it doesn't need fresh, realistic ultimate horror to help it along.

Mikey keeps up a muted, running commentary. "Baseball bat," he says, and cocks his fingers in a fake gun at the screen. "That one. In the back."

"Garden hose," Pete says, and grins at Mikey when he snickers.

\--

Somewhere on the wrong end of two a.m., when the movie's been over for almost an hour and they're just lying there talking, feet kicked up on the banged-up amp that serves as a coffee table, Pete thinks about just asking, straight out. He thinks about just inviting Mikey to go to bed with him, saying something like, _hey, there's room for two_, and letting the chips fall where they may.

He doesn't. He gets up, finds the spare blanket, steals a second pillow off his bed and hands them both to Mikey. Mikey looks up with a surprised expression, as though he expected to be sleeping in nothing more than his jeans and t-shirt. "Thanks," Mikey says, and Pete keeps his teeth closed, mouth shut, and smiles.

\--

So it's a surprise when Pete wakes up to someone sliding into his bed, the soft rustle of sheets and cold feet on his ankles. Pete blinks, pauses, and Mikey stares back at him, unblinking. It's kind of like Pete's blinking for the both of them. Mikey looks different without his glasses. He looks older, more angular, but mostly Pete just thinks he looks good.

"Hi," Pete says, and after that he's not really sure what to say.

"The couch, it's uh, cold," Mikey says, and it's such a bad lie Pete almost snickers. "Is this cool?" Mikey says, a little quieter. "Because um. I kind of hope it is."

"It's cool," Pete says, and somehow they meet in the middle, a tangle of awkwardness that only slowly resolves into heat and pressure. Mikey kisses like there's a war going on, brutal, the kind of kiss that makes Pete's toes curl up in his shoes. If he was wearing shoes, which he isn't, but whatever. It's the metaphor that counts, right?

"Let's fuck," Pete mumbles into his mouth, and Mikey responds with a hiss, an intake of breath, and more of those thick, overwhelming kisses. "You want to?"

"Yeah," Mikey says, and "Did you want to--"

"Me," Pete says, and pulls Mikey up and over him. "Me, me, c'mon, please." His tone is light, joking, and Mikey laughs a little, smiles another one of those sweet smiles into his neck. "Calm down, Tonto," Mikey mutters. "We'll get there, I promise."

"Promises don't mean shit," Pete says, still grinning, and pulls Mikey in tighter, fuck, it's good, it's so good but they need to take _off_ all these damn clothes. Pete wiggles his hands onto his ass, pulls his gym shorts down to mid-thigh until Mikey gets the message and moves away so Pete can actually, you know, undress. Mikey has broad shoulders, strong upper arms, and when he sits back on his heels to shimmy out of his shirt he follows it up by sticking his hands under Pete's ass and pulling and Pete ends up sitting, naked, in Mikey's lap. It's one of those things you never expect, and then it's kind of hot when it happens, and Pete can't bring himself to get upset about it.

"You're kind of small," Mikey says, looking a little surprised at the fact that he's basically holding Pete up.

"Not where it counts," Pete says, and laughs a little at his own dumb joke. Mikey smiles at him crookedly and palms the dip of Pete's spine and yeah, okay okay, Pete's into this, this is awesome.

Yeah.

\--

Mikey is surprisingly thorough. He takes his time, like the sun isn't rising outside the window, like the world isn't waking up for them, just for everyone else.

He has very long fingers.

\--

"Fuck," Pete grits out. "Fuck, no, seriously, I mean it, c'mon--"

"Yeah," Mikey pants out. "Yeah, okay." Exertion makes his voice low, growly, breathless. He pushes Pete's knees up harder and Pete whines a little because yes, okay, there, oh, _fuck_.

There, there, there.

"Shit," Pete says, and comes.

\--

He streches his legs out after, the muscles pleasantly cramped. Mikey flops onto his back. His hair is even stupider than when they first met. It's all scrunched over to one side.

"That was awesome," Pete says, because he has no filter for approximately half an hour after he orgasms, and that's just the way it is. "God, I'm hungry."

"I see how it is," Mikey says. "Sex and pancakes, that's all you want from me."

Pete wants to say _no_, wants to say _oh, man, no, so much more, you don't even know, it's bad, man, it's really bad_ but Mikey's giving him that crooked smile again, flexing his fingers against Pete's thigh.

"Diner?" Mikey says, and punctuates his statement with a sharp bite to Pete's shoulder, just because.

"You're such a fucking romantic," Pete says. "And hey, did you seriously try to pick me up by telling me I should be a robot?"

"It worked," Mikey says, shrugging. "Our ways are not normal people's ways, my friend."

"Robot love," Pete muses, out loud. "Yeah. I can get down with that. Unless you have hidden servomotors somewhere you're not telling me about."

"Oh, you'll find out," Mikey says.

"Laser guns?" Pete says.

"Don't push it," Mikey says. "I need to keep my aura of mystery."

\--

"Told you," Patrick says. "What did I say? I said _Pete, you're an idiot_. And I was right."

"N'aww," Pete says. Behind him, hovering in the doorway, Mikey coughs out a laugh.

Pete is so very full of pancakes, and exhilaration, and life. It feels like he could run a mile.

Mikey taps at the back of his hand, reminding him that he's still there. That Pete has things he needs to do, introductions to make.

"Patrick, Mikey," Pete says. The both shove their glasses up at identical times, and then reach out to shake hands. It's a-fucking-adorable. Pete is so charmed.

"You're like the wonder twins," Pete says, and Patrick smacks him on the back of the head and Mikey snickers.

"Whatever you're thinking, no," Patrick says. "No. Absolutely not."

"I wasn't thinking anything," Pete says. "No, really."

"I don't believe you," Patrick says. "If there is one thing I have learned, it's to not believe anything you say, ever."

\--

Mikey waits until they're leaving the shop, the long walk home in the morning sun, bellies full of grease and caffeine and hands that might brush, maybe, maybe.

He smiles at Pete a little and says, "I believe you."

"Taking a chance on me?" Pete says, and it's tossed off, bravado hiding his fear, smiling through the uncertainty.

"Bzz-click-whirr," Mikey says. "Robots never lie."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Baby, My Heart's Ticking Only for You](https://archiveofourown.org/works/374875) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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